Page 138 of Demon’s Snack

“Under protest.”

Isolde’s pen scratches across a clean page. “Vaerith will treat this as an infection in the room, not a wound in himself. He will need a spectacle large enough to make hesitation look disloyal.”

I push away from the door. “That’s a comforting sentence.”

“It was not meant to comfort.”

“It succeeded wildly.”

Her gaze lifts to mine, and the warmth that passes through the bond is quiet but direct. “I know.”

That is the problem. She does know. She knows exactly what kind of trap waits under each new development, and she keeps walking through the mathematics of it because fear has no use unless she can make it hold a pen.

A knock comes at the side door.

Three taps, a pause, then one more.

Sable reaches for the knife on the table. Rhazek, who has been standing silent near the hearth for so long even Bren stopped complaining about him, lifts his head slightly.

“Syrenya,” he says.

I look at him. “You can tell from the knock?”

“I can tell from the arrogance.”

Sable mutters, “Fair.”

Lady Syrenya enters wrapped in a green-black cloak that sheds rain onto the threshold like it has been personally insulted by weather. She lowers her hood, revealing sleek dark hair pinned with emerald combs and eyes bright with the kind of amusement that usually means someone else’s day has gone badly.

“Charming,” she says, looking around the safe house. “So this is where fugitives gather to weaponize paperwork.”

Isolde’s expression goes still. “Lady Syrenya.”

“Lady Dareth,” Syrenya replies, using the family name deliberately. “I received your packet.”

Sable’s knife remains in her hand. “Did you now?”

Syrenya’s gaze slides to the blade. “If I planned betrayal, I would have brought better shoes.”